


"John"

by Claireybo128



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Sad Ending, Shooting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-15 23:48:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7243750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Claireybo128/pseuds/Claireybo128
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"John"</p>
<p>John was shot, thats all he knew.</p>
<p>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"John"

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic, please be kind, All comments/advice welcome.

“John”

John was shot, that’s all he knew. He’d been here before, shot that is. The disconnection was was familiar, the feeling of intense pain mixed with a sensation of not actually being present for it, not acknowledging his blood as it flowed from him but feeling the warmth flood out too. There was nothing, no future, no life. Just black.  
As his awareness faded a voice punctured it, 

“John”

Far away at first,

“John” 

Growing closer and louder. The familiar voice, so deep, so low and soft, there is was again,

“John” 

Closer but almost a whisper now.  
They had been on a case, a silly one really John thought. Sherlock had chosen it when really Mycroft needed them, most probably out of spite. It was much more important to look into the disappearance of three high profile guests from a prominent London hotel than the matter of national security Mycroft had in mind, as was his way.  
When Sherlock visited the first hotel room, John could see his mood change in an instant, he knew Sherlock, not in the same way Sherlock could read people, read him, but he sensed him. Sherlock hadn’t actually banked on this case being dangerous. He had deduced the involvement of a security company, extortion of some kind, best passed on to Scotland Yard, anything to keep Mycroft off his back, he couldn’t focus lately.  
As he observed the contents of the suitcase he knew there was something more sinister at work. Sherlock fled the room. John followed, it was hard to keep up, Sherlock had such bloody long legs. He had almost lost sight of him when the shot rang out, breaking the rhythm of his feet going down the stairs. John hit the floor hard, landing in the stairwell.

“John”

John was aware of light, then aware of noise, a song? As he adjusted it became clear he was cocooned in a bed that was soft and warm. He didn’t want to move which was fortunate as when he tried it appeared that he could not. He opened his eyes and recognised it as Sherlocks bed, in Sherlocks room. Strange, he thought, as he had never woken up here, not in reality? He took a moment to look around the understated room, Sherlocks things and how they were placed, before a song punctured his thoughts once more, he drifted away again.

“John”

The voice was close, so close he felt the word float over his face as well as the sound filter through his ears. He opened his eyes to find Sherlock directly in front of his face, it was bright, light came from behind him making him angelic with his pale blue eyes, like an early morning sea. John could only focus on his eyes, beautiful he thought, and the feeling of warmth around his chest when Sherlock met his gaze.  
John could not speak nor move but he could look. 

“John”

“John, please”

Sherlocks eyes were pleading. This was the first time he had made eye contact with John since the shooting, Johns eyes had been closed, hiding him from Sherlock, and now there he was again, his John. The noise of the gunshot had been a starting pistol for the new thoughts flooding Sherlock’s brain. It had brought into sharp focus things that had been floating around, undiscovered but he had been aware of their presence.   
He knew he had been distracted lately, he couldn’t have told you why he felt the need to pursue the hotel case, Mycrofts case was at least an eight, but something had told him not to help, not to comply – not that this was unheard of, anything to annoy his brother. The reason for his hesitation was now forefront in his mind, the real reason he hadn’t wanted to take Mycrofts case, he would have had to go abroad, go away to another place, away from John.

The next time John woke he was sat upright in a chair, his chair. He was dressed and a cup of tea steamed next to him on the table. Sherlock was opposite him, curled into the smallest ball on his chair, how does he do that? He slept. John focussed his gaze on the steady rise and fall of Sherlocks body as he slept. The sun coming through the tall windows highlighted the folds of his blue silk dressing gown. Dark curls flopped across his forehead matched in colour by his long lashes. Time, no matter, he could do this till all things ended. This was a rare sight and John wanted to cherish it, to see Sherlock at rest, perfectly calm gave him comfort as a distant panic began to rise within him.   
As distracted as he was by Sherlock he began to think about speaking. He wanted to hear his voice say Sherlocks name, he had heard Sherlock say his name so frequently it was almost all he could hear now  
John changed his focus for a moment from the sleeping Sherlock to his own self, His legs, his body, his hands, all still, quiet, calm. The panic bloomed, first in his stomach, but with each realisation it shot further up his spine, until he had one sensation filling his entire being. It burned. Johns eyes darted round the room then fixed back on Sherlock, his heart stopped. Sherlock was sat up and looking back at him. The room went black, John was lost, 

“John!”

That noise.

“John!!

He couldn’t see Sherlock but he knew he was there. The warmth in his chest returned and he was calm again. 

John was in a place he’d never been. He was aware he didn’t mind where he was. It was peaceful. Sherlock was there. He was near. John knew, in reality, it was only minutes since the bullet pierced him, sheared its way through his flesh and bone. Come to rest in his chest, close to his heart. In this place there was no concept of time, only love. His love was close but so far, the same as always, and now would be forever. 

“John”

Peace settled over him. The voice was quieter now.   
Sherlock sat next to John in the stairwell. His face close to Johns ear, not thinking of anything but John. Holding him close, wanting nothing but to see his dark blue eyes open once more. The realisation though, so fresh in his mind, of love, so strong and fading almost as soon as it had been born.

“John”


End file.
